The Robins of Iverhill: Chapter 21 – Norton

NOTE: the following story, which will be serialized on this blog, was originally written in 1985 as my senior project in creative writing at Hamilton College. 25 years later, it has been updated. New chapters will appear Monday, Wednesday and Saturday. Previous chapters are listed with hyperlinks below.

My name is Genvieve McCarling, I’m the manager of the Iverhill Robins, and I’m trying to figure out how to get ahead of the Dellsburg Skippers.

We are now three games behind Dellsburg for third place, with New Providence in the lead. Only the top two teams in this six-team circuit get to play in the IBA postseason series, so although I still wasn’t completely happy about Monty’s antics each game, he can still hit the ball and I need a decent infielder – I don’t need Willie Frees to lead the league in infield errors like he did last year.

For what it’s worth, I happened to notice something different about Eugene Raveler. Ever since that night a week or so ago, back in his apartment – that night that I and his girlfriend and those two other girls all showed up at the same time – he’s played like a different man. He always had a decent work ethic in practice, but this time he’s actually been the first guy at the ballpark. He’s worked out batting regimens with Zach Phillipstern and Smokey Dulieau, my two best pitchers, for them to help him work on hitting that outside corner slider that every pitcher in the IBA knows he can’t hit to save his life.

Monty made some incredible catches at third base, and we won two out of the next three games – yes, I know they were against Cherry Mills, everybody beats Cherry Mills, but it kept us close to Dellsburg for that final playoff spot. The long sunshiny days of August were coasting through this logging town, and with every game left on the schedule, we needed every player to step up and play their best.

It’s Thursday evening and I’m working in the clubhouse, going over statistics and scouting reports. I glanced up from my desk and saw what appeared to be a man I did not recognize, knocking at my office door. “Coach McCarling?”

“Yes?”

“Your team secretary set up an appointment, so I could meet you – my name is Samuel Taylor Norton. Here’s my card.”

Oh right, I completely forgot about this guy – Ms. McDaniel sent me a note saying he wanted to speak with me.

“This will have to be fast, Mr. Norton,” I said, my pen checking off an important note on a scouting report sheet. “I have a game to prepare for.”

“It’s about one of your players – he calls himself Monty Mauntmaurency.”

“What about him?”

“It’s extremely important that I speak with you about – well, Mr. Mauntmaurency.”

I pointed to the chair across from my desk. “What’s going on?”

Mr. Norton, a tall slender man with eyes that looked as if they had seen a hundred thousand baseball games, sat down.

“Has he caused you any trouble this year?”

“No, other than he has to work on his fielding a bit,” I said, not really wanting to rehash everything from the Bark Creek bench-clearing brawl to the traffic tickets to this whole 1890’s style of play.

“We’ve actually been looking for him for a while. I should let you know – his name is not Monty Mauntmaurency.”

“Oh? What is his name?”

“His name is actually Nicholas Buchanan. He was actually a top baseball prospect for a couple of years. He was part of the Angels organization, and he made it as far as the Double-A level.”

I picked up the pen and wrote the name “Nicholas Buchanan” on my scouting report. I would never have thought Monty was a “Buchanan.” I figured him for more of a Williams or Anderson or something close to that surname.

“Anyway, near the end of last season, he was up to bat, the bases were loaded with two men out. The count was three and two. He was ready to hit this one out of the park, and everybody in the stadium knew he would do it.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Worst thing ever. The pitcher released a fastball, but the pitch went straight at Nick’s head. The force of the pitch shattered the batting helmet, and knocked him down. We took him by ambulance to the hospital. It was touch and go for a while. He almost died from a cracked skull and cerebral hemorrhage.”

“How terrible,” I said.

“He did recover, but although he was able to function and move, he was having trouble with his long-term memory. He could remember how to play baseball, but he had trouble writing his name. It was as if everything he ever knew was on the diamond – but off the diamond, he couldn’t function. We brought him some books to read during his convalescence – he read a couple of the fiction novels, but he tossed those aside. But any books that involved baseball, he read those over and over again. We couldn’t bring them in fast enough for him. He read the Babe Ruth Story, Ball Four, Fear Strikes Out, all the Frank Merriwell and John R. Tunis books, over and over again.”

“Did that help him?”

“We thought it did. But then Nick picked up a book called The Evolution of the Game, a book about the history of early baseball. And for a while, that was the only book he read. He wouldn’t put that book down. And then, after a few days, he simply checked himself out of the hospital. That was the last we saw of him. Until I received word that there was a player in an independent league in upstate New York, a player who was excelling in baseball but acting like he was from another time.”

I walked over to my office water cooler and pulled two paper cups from a dispenser. I filled both cups with water, and handed one to Mr. Norton. I thought Norton’s story made perfect sense – the whole “I’m from the 19th century” gimmick wasn’t a publicity gimmick, this was a very seriously injured man with a damaged brain. Who knows if he had taken a fastball to another part of his skull, he could have thought he was Napoleon.

But then I remembered something… I remembered fragments of an earlier dream I had. And Monty was in it. And something about that dream… something told me that I couldn’t let Monty go. Not right now. Not when there are so many other questions that had to be answered.

“Mr. Norton, if you had come to me with this information sooner, I’m sure we could have worked something out with regard to Monty – er – Nick, sorry. And I’m sure the Angels would like to get their man back into their farm system.”

“Well, yes, we would, if he’s healthy,” said Norton. “We feel responsible for what happened to him.”

“Yeah, I know… see, here’s the problem, Mr. Norton. As much as I would love to give you Monty Mauntmaurency, I still want to get to the playoffs. You may not be aware of this, but the Intrastate Baseball Association isn’t holding up very well this year. We can get through this season, but I’ve heard rumors that at least two teams are about to close down, they’ve lost too much money. And four teams is not a league. Four teams is a tournament.”

“Ms. McCarling,” he replied. “Our organization has a top-notch medical staff. He’s still covered by our team’s medical policy. We would be more than happy to reimburse you and the Robins for any losses your team might suffer. We have several pitchers in our organization that need more time on the mound, perhaps we can send you one or two.”

“Well, if you take him from me, I need a third baseman, or at least a utility infielder, to replace him.”

“We could… You could convert one of our single-A pitchers to an infielder, we have a guy who hasn’t advanced past single-A for three years, maybe with your team he can learn on the fly, to play in a different position.”

“Mr. Norton, I don’t need a pitcher, and I don’t need someone who can – as you would say – learn on the fly. I need an infielder. And for all his craziness, Monty Mauntmaurency is a very good ballplayer.” I knew I forgot to say “Nicholas Buchanan.” But at that point I didn’t care.

“Ms. McCarling, again, I have to recommend that you at least let us take Nicholas back to our medical facility. He still needs treatment. We need to get him back to his old self and not to this Mauntmaurency character.”

I don’t know what it was – I’d put up with Monty’s antics all season. But this guy Norton was starting to bother me.

“Mr. Norton, we have four weeks left in our season. Maybe five if we make the finals. If you can, please stay in Iverhill as a guest of the Robins. That way, you can keep an eye on Monty and if there are any more problems, you can take him immediately. But please, let me at least try to win the pennant. It’s hard to find quality ballplayers on this level. I need to keep the ones I have, no matter how odd they are.”

Norton reached in his pocket for a cigarette. I opened my desk drawer to offer him a lighter, but as I pulled my lighter out of the desk, he had already lit the cigarette and was smoking away. “I think I’ll stay in your town for a few days. Nice weather you’re having here. Just so I can make sure everything is okay with Nicholas.”

“We’ve had several sunny days this week,” I said, returning to my desk work. “Are you staying at the Iverhill Motor Lodge?”

No response. I looked up. Norton was gone. He must have walked out. Didn’t even say goodbye.

I hate when people leave and don’t even say goodbye.

Especially when my mother did that to me.

Chuck Miller

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Chuck Miller: Writer, Photographer, and the life lessons I learned from Street Academy